Snow In Paris
by ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is alone and remembering John and how it all was really Sherlock's fault he wasn't there anymore.


_I wonder if there's snow in Paris tonight. _It should have been a simple thought, passing through Sherlock's mind and being discarded as quickly as it appeared. Instead, it made the hand Sherlock had on the window curtain clench and his breathing stop momentarily. He closed the window, warm air rushing to meet where the cold had just been, snowflakes drifting softly outside. Sherlock pictured the city, _jardins _covered in a dusting of snow, Eiffel Tower standing silhouetted against the moon shining through the clouds.

Sherlock had been to Paris once when he was younger with Mummy and Mycroft, a short vacation to cheer them all up after an especially hard year of schooling. Sherlock had clung to his mother's hand; wide-eyed at the sounds of French words rolling off the tongues of the natives, and that was when he had decided he wanted to learn. Now, standing alone in the dreary room of Baker Street, he could speak it fluently, along with German, Spanish, Italian, Arabic, and Mandarin Chinese. Some languages he had garnered from necessity of his deductions, some from want to learn.

He promised he'd go back to Paris, had promised John he'd take him with him. _John._ The only word in the English language that could strike such a chord in Sherlock's heart until he was curled up in the armchair John had loved, weeping into the Union Jack pillow that was worn and fading. Now there was no Paris, no John, just a cold golden ring and a dark headstone reminding Sherlock what used to be his.

People were either extremely surprised, or not surprised at all about Sherlock and John. The people closest to them knew it was inevitable, watching from the outside as fate spun the men closer to one another. At their wedding Mycroft had made a speech, the most heartfelt thing Sherlock had ever heard leave his brother's mouth, and he could hear the words as If they had just been spoken. "Sherlock and John are two very different instruments, playing two very different melodies that somehow fit together in the most magnificent way. Sherlock being a violin; by himself, Vivaldi, being played solo by a professional on a rare, mint condition Stradivarius, in a concert hall. John being a piano; by himself Pachelbel, being played by a concert pianist on a perfectly tuned Baldwin. Alone Sherlock is a beautiful melody, the feel of the bow being clutched by skilled hands, poised and ready to be drug across the strings at the conductor's notice. John, well-rehearsed hands dancing across ivory, every note perfection, every pause written on the page before him.

"The difference when they are together though is a difference anyone can hear. With John, Sherlock is that same violin, a priceless treasure, but instead the hands may be calloused, may be brittle with age, but they love that violin and Vivaldi is the only thing they want to play with passion. In the same way, with Sherlock, John is that beautiful ebony piano, but it sits in a home, a mother who grew up with a passion for _Canon In D Major _playing it with all the soul she had when no one was around to tell her where the correct pauses were, but allowing the melody to become something all on its own. Together they are separate melodies that fit together and become the other's harmony."

John had cried, Sherlock remembered that, his own chest swelling with pride at the images conjured by his brother who was sitting back down, a bit misty-eyed himself. It was true, every word Mycroft had spoken, and now here Sherlock sat, his harmony missing from his life. He fought to remember their wedding night, how he had held John and made love to him, feeling giddy and high like he would expect a teenager to feel during their first time. John made him feel, and as much as it scared the hell out of Sherlock, he knew he was safe as long as he was with John. It was in times like these he missed John the most, when a phrase reminded him so much of the man that he didn't know if he could bear it. _I wonder if there's snow in Paris tonight_. Those had been a few of the last words John had ever spoken, lying there in the hospital bed, fighting still for Sherlock as he stood by helpless, not hardly being able to think.

Sherlock blamed himself, always would, and no matter that John had told him over and over again in the hospital that it hadn't been Sherlock's fault. But it had. If Sherlock hadn't been so stubborn about going after the serial murderer himself then John would still be alive, still be here with him.

As they had rounded the corner to apprehend the accused man, he had opened fire on them, Sherlock rolling out of the way having heard the click of the safety coming off, trying to drag John with him, but he had been too late. John had been hit in the chest and right away Sherlock knew it was 90 percent fatal. He had seen red, grabbing the gun from where it lay next to John's body and he landed the entire cartridge into the attacker's heart. He had phoned 999 in a haze, barely figuring out where they were, trying to think of how to get John to safety.

Lestrade had arrived before the medics, trying to pull Sherlock away from John, glancing only briefly at the unmoving man down the alley, pointing out the body to Anderson and telling him to get on with it. Lestrade had tried to calm Sherlock, telling him John would be right, but Sherlock knew a lot more about human anatomy and the effect of a bullet on it.

The medics arrived, pulling Sherlock away, John's blood staining his hands and clothes, pooling around the ring on his left hand mockingly. He sat in shocked silence in the front of the ambulance, Lestrade asking him questions as he responded quietly, his thoughts revolving around the man hanging on to his life in the back. They had had an argument earlier, nothing new there for the two of them, and Sherlock needed one chance to say he loved John if this really was the end.

Sherlock had paced the waiting room, Lestrade sitting dejectedly next to Mrs Hudson who was tapping her fingers nervously on her knee. Mycroft had stridden in, bee lining for the nurses' station and demanding all details and threatening to sue if the hospital's best surgeon wasn't tending to John and immediately. Sherlock knew that was his brother's way of showing support, doing whatever he could in his power to make things better. It was in these moments that a person saw how much the Holmes brothers cared for one another, doing what they could to help the other when it mattered most. Mycroft sank into a chair next to Lestrade, his arm brushing the detective's and a pang of jealousy rose in Sherlock. Jealousy because Mycroft and Lestrade didn't have to worry about their significant other, neither was lying alone on a cold hospital bed, clinging to the last dredges of life as people worked over him, extracting the bullet and hoping to God that there wasn't much-or any- internal damage done that wasn't repairable.

Sherlock wanted to cry, wanted to scream, wanted to build a bleeding time machine and go back to earlier in the afternoon when John had been making tea and he had walked up behind him, pressing him to the counter, whispering the things he wanted to do to John in his ear. In French. He had been rewarded for that one with the most enthusiastic blowjob John had ever given him and a lapful of John, all lips and teeth as Sherlock repaid him with his hand.

But he couldn't build a time machine, couldn't change the past, all he could do was wait. And wait he did. Twenty long, drawn out minutes of waiting until they heard Watson-Holmes called out and Sherlock was jogging to the doctor. He knew by the man's face it wasn't good, the way he avoided Sherlock's eyes as he strode forward, flanked closely by the other three pieces of this small family. "Sir," the man began, his tone shattering any previous hope Sherlock had and he felt his brother's hand resting on his shoulder. "He's not doing well. We removed the bullet but it clipped an artery on the way in and punctures one of the lower walls of his heart." Sherlock felt his knees buckle, Lestrade catching him before he hit the floor and the surgeon's words were muddled now. "We moved him to a room to make him more comfortable, I suggest you see him, but be prepared for goodbye."

Sherlock felt hollow, like a piece of him had just died. He vaguely registered the sound of Mycroft asking for the room number and he felt two pairs of hands leading him towards the lift.

They made it to the room, Mrs Hudson pulling the chair next to the bed, Sherlock collapsing into it at the sight of John, his John, hanging on to that little spark of life left in him. He licked his lips, a habit Sherlock had grown fond of and spoke the words that still haunt Sherlock to this day. "I wonder if there's snow in Paris tonight." Sherlock had smiled, there were light flakes drifting past the window as he glanced out it, not daring to take his eyes off of John.

"John, I'm so, so sorry." Sherlock clutched to John's hand, it was cold, too cold for Sherlock's liking and he scooted closer to the bed.

"Shut up you daft man. It isn't your fault; I should have paid more attention."

"I shouldn't have forced you to go with me."

"I would've followed. You know I always do. I love you Sherlock Holmes, don't you ever forget that."

"Sherlock Watson-Holmes now," Sherlock corrected, smiling slightly at the twinkle in John's eye.

"That's right, I went and got myself married to the most insane man I could find. Must've had a damn good reason to though. Oh yeah, because he drives me up the wall and I can never get enough of him."

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to John's lips, tears freely rolling down his eyes. "Don't leave me John, what am I supposed to do without you?"

"Live, don't give up. I'll always be there with you, in your heart Sherlock. Always. Don't you forget that. Can you do that for me? Never forget how much I love you Sherlock. You were my other half, the one thing I never realized I was missing until you rushed into my life. We never did send Mike Stamford a thank you card. He came to the wedding; I thanked him then, for giving me the best thing in my life."

Sherlock kissed John again, pulling away to whisper 'I love you' over and over again, clutching John's hand to his chest. There was so much he needed to tell John, places to take John, ways to make love to John. He couldn't let go, not now.

"I love you Sherlock, remember that." John's eyes fell closed, fingers wrapped around Sherlock's hand as his breathing evened out, the heart monitor slowing its beeps until it flat lined and Sherlock knew John was gone.

Sherlock hadn't taken a case from Lestrade for three weeks after that, eating and sleeping only when necessary, making all funeral arrangements himself. The service was held in a chapel, Sherlock the grieving widow sitting between his brother and mother, eyes on him as people spoke, telling of John's bravery in the service, even Harry spoke, breaking down in the middle of it, Clara finishing for her through tears. Then Mike Stamford rose and Sherlock clutched onto Mycroft's sleeve. Mike talked about how their somewhat accidental meeting had turned into what Mike had hoped, two men finding what they truly needed in life, both of them telling him how hard it must have been to find them flatmates and the thought sticking out in his mind. He talked about their days at Bart together, speaking of a John Sherlock never knew, but wish he had.

The service lasted for a while, people milling around to give their condolences, Molly Hooper looking graven at the sight of Sherlock's wan complexion. Sherlock knew he was taking on the appearance of a body in the morgue, sickly and pale, his usually lithe body stretched too tightly against his bones.

John was interred in the Holmes family graveyard, Watson-Holmes carved into the cool black granite, Sherlock's name printed next to John's awaiting the day Sherlock would join his best friend and lover.

Now Sherlock sat curled in the chair, breathing in the scent of John that still lingered, a scent that was so familiar to Sherlock that it had its own place in his memory bank, stowed away where it would never be lost. He had started eating more, at the urging of Molly and Mrs Hudson, started taking cases again, anything to get his mind off John, even though everything in turn _reminded _him of John. But that was life, and Sherlock had to press on, had to keep living, because what would John think if he could see him. He could hear John's voice, smooth and deep, telling him the cause of death, or exuberantly praising Sherlock's genius. He could hear the difference in pitches between tired and aroused, upset and sad. He could hear every inflection, the small laughs John would make when Sherlock would tell something amusing. But Sherlock could live with that. As long as he had his memories of John, he had something.

Sherlock stretched from the chair, steeling himself towards the bedroom, the only one they had used for a long time, John's clothes still in the chest-of-drawers and closet, his pillow still smelling like John's cologne, his pistol still in the bedside drawer. Nothing had been removed or rearranged and nothing would be until the day Sherlock himself passed away, he would make sure of that.

As he changed and looked into the mirror attached to the chest-of-drawers, a picture of him and John at their wedding smiling back at him. John had attached it to the mirror to remind them of how far they'd come and to remember how much it was worth it. Sherlock thumbed the photo, a smile spreading across his face as he turned down the duvet and climbed in the bed, automatically turning on his side to put an arm around John, or his pillow now. He fell asleep quickly, his energy needing replenished after a day of chasing down a burglar.

In his dreams the snow was falling softly around him as he stared up at the twinkling Eiffel Tower. He turned; pressing a kiss to John's lips, "I believe there _is_ snow in Paris tonight."


End file.
